Glory in the Flower
by Aira Kay
Summary: When America returned home with a giant pout on his cute little face and a tiny purple flower in his hand, England knew something was wrong. And who was this Davie?
1. Chapter 1: Wilt

**Chapter 1: Wilt**

When America returned home with a giant pout on his cute little face, England knew something was wrong. The tyke had been so enthusiastic upon leaving, only pausing to hug the older nation around the leg before dashing off with the armful of violet flowers he had, for some reason, been seeking so desperately for the last who knows how many decades.

England knelt to look his charge in the eye, resting a hand on the boy's tiny shoulder. "What's wrong, lad?"

America sniffed, sky blue eyes watering just the tiniest bit before they were angrily wiped on a no longer pristine white sleeve. "Davie's bein' mean."

"Davie…?" Who in the bloody blazes was _Davie_? Another of America's animal friends? The boy was rambunctious and prone to exploring the wilds around his little house, so it wouldn't have been a surprise. Hopefully he hadn't angered a bear or some other fierce predator; England wasn't certain he could handle the shock of that happening a _second_ time.

His charge seemed to perk up a little at his inquiry. "Davie's from the village! He has a ton of cool stories and we went explorin' together, and he told me about that purple flower and said he was gonna go find it 'cause he always wanted to see it!" The small smile wobbled. "'Cept he didn't seem happy when I gave them to him. He just threw them in a big box that some old guy was sleepin' in. I tried to make him remember, like this!" England found himself with a face full of wilted purple petals; he hadn't noticed the solitary bloom clasped in America's fist until then. "But he just…" The tears were back, and falling this time, streaking the small face before him. England gathered America up in his arms with a sinking feeling in his stomach, and the boy buried himself in England's neck. "He looked all blank. Like he didn't know me."

"Oh, lad…" England murmured softly, stroking his hair. He had a feeling he knew what happened here, and the prospect of telling America the truth… he didn't relish it.

"'Nd he finally looked like my Davie again, too!" America continued tearfully. "'Cause he'd gotten real big the last few times I saw him and I thought he was mad 'cause I didn't have the flower for him. But now he's little again and I have it and he doesn't remember me…" His voice had degraded to a tiny whimper by the end, and England barely caught his final words. "Does he… hate me?"

"No, of course not." England pulled back just enough so he could see the boy's face. "America… how many times have I visited, since you first met Davie and told him you'd find the flower?" The colony had yet to comprehend the concept of years, but he kept steady track of England's comings and goings.

"Uh… a lot. I can't count that high." More than twenty, then. England did some quick math and realized the real Davie would have to be practically ancient by human standards in this day and age. Ancient, or... Ah. The gentleman in the 'box.'

"America," he said, gently. "Humans don't just get younger. That young man you saw? That wasn't your Davie."

Innocent eyes blinked at him, wide and staring. "Who was he?"

England hummed. "His grandson, perhaps?" America had said Davie had been older the each time they'd met. Like as not he'd had a family of some kind.

"So where's Davie?" Oh, how England wished this wasn't happening, wished he didn't have to damage the pure innocence filling those eyes like the sky over an open plain.

Pulling his favorite charge to him, cradling him in the crook of his arm, England asked, "America, what did the gentleman in the cof— box look like?"

Tiny wrinkles furrowed in the boy's forehead. "Like… Davie when he was big, kind of. Just… more wrinkly and grey-haired and stuff." England half-smiled when the child perked up, having put two and two together – America was naive, but that didn't mean he was any less bright. "Davie was the old guy?"

"Yes, lad." England paused, ruminating on his next words carefully. "That box he was in was called a coffin. It's a place where people's bodies are laid to rest." America only blinked at him, so he continued, with a sigh. "Humans don't experience time the same way we do. What seems like a short while to us can be very, very long to them."

"Is that why Davie didn't remember me?"

England nodded. "And… when humans get old or sick, or when they're hurt very badly… They don't heal like we do. Sometimes they can't get better, and they die." It could happen to nations, too, but it was much more difficult, and England didn't want to lay another burden on America's young shoulders just yet. "That's why Davie was in the coffin, America. He died."

"Oh." America looked down at the wilting flower in his hands. "So when's he gonna wake up so I can show him I got the flower?"

 _Maybe he's too young to understand, bless him._ "Tell you what, lad. How's about I show you how to press that flower so it stays looking nice, and you can show it to him later."

* * *

At the time, America hadn't understood what England had meant, but it made him take notice. He began to watch, and, slowly, to learn.

The next time England visited, America had gotten older.

* * *

 **A/N: Bless baby America, filling my heart with so many feels. Thanks to my own America for letting me blab ideas at her and just for generally being fantastic. 3**


	2. Chapter 2: Sprout

**Chapter 2: Sprout**

The next time England visited, America had gotten older.

He entered their little house without knocking, and was promptly bowled over by a golden-blond boy garbed not in a white nightgown, or even simple trousers and a shirt. This child wore the clothing of an adult - waistcoat, bow, and all. When America hugged him, England noted that the lad was at least a full head higher against his chest. No, more than that; he'd been only barely taller than England's knee last time, and now the top of his tousled head touched the older nation's rib cage.

England hugged back before pulling away, grasping his charge by the shoulders, and looking him over. It was definitely his America, only... taller. And there was something in his eyes, a blight on his previous blissful naiveté.

Something had changed.

"England, you're back! I missed you!"

A small smile twitched at the edge of the island country's lips. "And I you, lad."

America grasped his hand, tugging him into the sitting room. "Have you been having adventures? Did you fight epic battles and beat the pants off France? Tell me, tell me!"

With a chuckle, England sat in the armchair by the fire, letting the comfortable furniture tempt his eyes shut for just a few moments. When he reopened them, America stood before him, rocking heel to toe and peering up through his fringe. England recognized the gesture from every time the child had misbehaved and knew it. Given that England had been here under half an hour, this was more than a little concerning. "What's amiss, lad?"

America bit his lip. "I got bigger."

"Mm," England hummed noncommittally, wondering where this was going. America had grown before, as the colonists gained territory and more autonomy, and as the lad had learned more about himself and the world around him. None of his previous growth spurts, however, had been of this magnitude, and England wondered at the cause. He hadn't purchased or conquered any new territory in the area, didn't remember passing any laws or hearing of any events that might produce such a change. The alteration, then, must have been in America himself, giving him some vital understanding. "Do you know why?"

"Yeah." Sky blue eyes clouded, and a tiny frown tugged the corners of America's mouth down. When England raised an eyebrow to spur him on, the colony sighed and plopped down beside him. "'Member when I told you 'bout Davie?"

England wasn't about to forget that conversation anytime soon.

"I didn't really get what you meant," America stared at his folded hands, swinging legs that didn't quite touch the ground back and forth. He was quiet for a long minute, and then, with a sigh, he continued his story.

* * *

After saying a tearful goodbye to England at the docks (and trying to stop his elder from leaving by any means necessary, including attempting to kick holes in the ship. Not that that had done anything beyond making England's huge eyebrow twitch), America wandered into town as he'd done many times before. Ever since the day he'd arrived home practically in tears, clutching a small purple flower, America had started watching the humans around him. He rarely came into populated areas, preferring the wild woods around his cottage, but he wanted to see the strange phenomenon England was talking about.

Did humans get older? He knew Davie had gotten big and wrinkly and gray, but he had still been _Davie_. England always knew everything (which wasn't fun when America had been bad), but maybe this time he was wrong. Or making a joke! _America_ didn't get bigger, after all. England said they weren't humans, but they didn't look all that different.

And the time thing was funny, too. Cycles of the sun and moon seemed to fly by in a never-ending flow. How could it go by slowly for someone else?

As he trekked through the little town, America watched his people. They came in so many shapes and sizes and he loved every single one of them. It felt like he almost never saw the same one twice!

On the edge of the village, he found a small farmhouse with a smiling man and woman, who welcomed the (presumably orphaned) boy with open arms. After he'd helped with the chores, they'd let him play with their own children. Curious, with England's words on time echoing in his ears and the memory of Davie's many faces before his eyes, America decided to stay. He joined their family, and he observed.

Moon cycles flew by, and in what felt like a blink of the colony's eye, the other children grew taller, the girls gaining strange lumps on their chest and the boys' voices deepening and everyone gaining hair all over, and soon they no longer wanted to play with the strange, tiny youngster. Even worse, they shied away whenever he came near, assuming him some kind of ghost or apparition whose wrath ought not be raised by shooing him away. The parents, too, changed, growing gray, wrinkles like canyons carving their way onto faces, more appearing each day like new lines on an artist's drawing.

Throughout it all, American found himself still small, examining his tiny hands with a perplexed frown. Somehow, for some reason, he was different. The leap off the high fence near town hadn't hurt him at all, but one of his new friend's arms had given an awful snap, and his cuts and scrapes during their young adventures had been gone within a day, while the other children's lingered for much longer.

And then the mother had gotten sick, wheezing and unable to rise from her bed. America had sat with her, telling her tales to make her laugh but only succeeding in making her cough more, so instead he held her hand. One day, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, the rise and fall of her chest stilling, and she didn't wake up again. America had seen his animal friends do that, too, but he'd let them sleep and assumed that they got up when they were rested, or better.

He had stood by the father, holding the back of his leg as the villagers put the woman in a box - a _coffin_ , he remembered - and draped the house in black. He'd watched, hiding behind the children-no-more, as the box was carried to the church and then to a yard filled with decorated stones, where a few words were said. Then the box with the mother in it was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. Everyone was crying, and as America glanced from face to face, his chest throbbed painfully.

The nice lady wasn't coming back. That's what death was, going away forever.

 _Davie_ was gone forever. He'd never know that America had found his flower. It was as though the Earth had dropped out from under him.

That night, America ran, back to his dusty, solitary cottage hidden in the woods, and cried himself to sleep.

The next morning, he had hit his elbow against the kitchen table, where before he had always knocked the top of his head.

America had gotten taller.

* * *

By the end of the tale, England could feel his heart heaving in his chest, and he gathered his charge to him.

 _So he finally understands._ "I'm sorry, lad," he murmured, stroking the lad's hair. America clung to his shirt, leaving little wet spots on the fabric.

"Why do they gotta - gotta -" the child hiccuped, peering back up at his guardian.

"Time is different for them, remember, lad? They can't live forever." Resting a hand on America's golden hair, he tried to smile. "There wouldn't be room for new people otherwise, eh?" America thought that one over and then nodded, but he didn't let go of England.

"You're not gonna die, are you?" The question was soft and tremulous, and England wrapped his arms around the lad.

"No, America. I shan't."

"Good." America snuggled into him, and England made a mental note to craft America some new playthings more suitable to his older body. Some toy soldiers, perhaps? He'd think more on that later. "I don't want you to leave. Ever."

Warmth suffused its way through England's chest, and he smiled down at the little blond boy. "Of course I won't. You're my colony. We'll stay together forever."

America nodded enthusiastically, and the conversation turned to more pleasant topics.

* * *

But time moved too fast, even for a nation. The hour of splendor had passed, wilting like a single purple flower held in tiny hands, trying to grasp the nature of mortality. America had started watching, and listening, and learning, and every time England came back, he was older.

Soon, too soon, he was taller than England, and then they stood across from each other on a blood-and-tear stained battleground.

It was America who did the leaving, then.

 _"You used to be so big."_

 **End.**

 _"What though the radiance that was once so bright_

 _Be now forever taken from my sight_

 _Though nothing can bring back_

 _The hour of splendor in the grass_

 _Of glory in the flower_

 _We will grieve not_

 _Rather find strength_

 _In what remains behind."_

 _William Wordsworth, English poet (1770 - 1850)_

* * *

 **A/N: And so it ends. This was fun to write, and I hope it was enjoyable to read.**


End file.
